I wish I could say
by Sandy2
Summary: Rory and Tristan and the demented girl who brings them together
1. Well, Jack, who do we have behind door #...

***Before we start. Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters except the ones that I have made up from my head. Rory, Tristan, Chilton, etc, are not byproducts of my psychotic imagination, but rather belong to the WB and Amy Sherman Palladino. In addition, as a warning, there will be some swear words (not the harsh ones) in this chapter and the coming chapters. Please be forewarned. In addition, unfortunately I try my best to reread the chapters before they are uploaded, but sometimes my editing skills fail me, and so there might be some mistakes in the text below.***  
  
You may ask. who the hell am I?  
  
I mean, I don't exactly fit into this story. I'm not sweet, and I don't have a love interest that will make all little girls everywhere swoon and giggle and whisper "so cute!"  
  
And my name. Definitely a disappointment. I'm not a Mindy, Cindy, Emily or Judy. Not even one of those cutesy names that end in "a" like Jessica, Amanda, Andrea, or Tamara.  
  
It's Lauren. Right. And in France, Lauren is a boy's name, except they write it with a "t" at the end. Laurent. And they pronounce it with a lift too, making the name sound sophisticated. But when they discover I'm a girl, and completely un-French, they kind of all grimace, and sigh.  
  
The bane of my existence. Sighing. It's like one of those fads. people do it just because it's a crowd pleaser. I fear for the next generation, because I truly believe that they won't be able to express their discontentment without making that wheezing sound that makes them seem as sophisticated as my Dad when he's sneezing through one of his allergy attacks (It's the damn pollen, Lauren. I can't stand the damn pollen).  
  
So to answer all of your questions? What exactly is my contribution to the story?  
  
Well, I'm the girl who fought with popularity and lost. But no, I'm not the nerdy, gawky teenager who woke up one day with the desire to overtake the societal structure that is the social hierarchy in educational facilities across the nation, and aided by a Wonderbra and an awesome hair stylist, I took the high school system by storm.  
  
Rather, I was the poor soul who woke up one day to find that everybody was calling her beautiful while mentally calculating behind her back exactly how many dollars her Daddy was making a year. The answer?  
  
Too much.  
  
*** Geez.  
  
Can we say cheesy?  
  
Next thing you'll know, she'll convince you all that she's some kind of pity case that's one step away from the Salvation Army and soup kitchens.  
  
God dammit, Lauren. You always make me look bad.  
  
Do I go on and on about my sterile relationship with my parents or the fact that my last girlfriend thought that a tankini and sarong were appropriate garments to wear to my cousin's wedding?  
  
No. I just take life as it is. One day at a time, one painful mishap after another.  
  
I don't ask for pity, like some people that I know.  
  
And the whole name thing? It's Tristan. Not Joe or Josh or Joshua. Tristan.  
  
And it's not like I moan and groan about the fact that I didn't get a choice in the matter for the past seventeen years of my life.  
  
Like most things, I just take it as it is.  
  
*** Okay. Enough. Are you going to be telling the story, or shall I?  
  
Because quite frankly, Tristan, you can't tell a story worth a shit.  
  
So you may be wondering, how did we both become best friends? How did a semi-intelligent, sophisticated and sane young woman ever find herself with a guy best friend who thought that refined living meant eating Pogos with linen napkins instead of paper towels?  
  
How, you ask?  
  
Simple. Because we were both bored with our worlds. I mean, come on! One day, I was quietly enjoying my incognito status at Chilton, and then there's the incident where Buddy Laraday manages to sneak into the secretariat and suddenly its all over school that Daddy was number 23 on Fortune's richest and most powerful list, and that while studying in Monaco, I'd managed to go out with not one, but three distant members of European royal families.  
  
So suddenly, I'm catapulted into the limelight, and then there's all these expectations. Like where I buy my clothes. Like what I eat for lunch. Like who I hang out with.  
  
So why Tristan?  
  
Well, he's not so bad once you get over the gloating and cockiness (but don't you dare let that go to your head, Tristan). And he was in the same situation as I was. Bored with the people around us, and unwillingly stuck atop a societal pyramid of supremacy.  
  
So that was that.  
  
But just so long as we're on the same page here, there was, I have to admit, a moment of brief insanity.  
  
Yes. I, Lauren St. Martin, once dated for a very brief moment in time, Tristan DuGrey.  
  
It was probably the single-most stupid, foolhardy, incredibly ridiculous-  
  
*** Again, can we say exaggeration?  
  
Four dates, and she gives you the impression that they made her want to join one of those cults where they make you wear purple turbans and declare your love for some guy named Francesco.  
  
Besides, dates with me are never bad. In fact, all I've gotten was positive feedback. in more ways than one. Plus, nobody could ever claim that they weren't stimulating.  
  
Anyway, the point is, she was bored, I was bored, we became bored together, and after one night where we went further than we should have, we called it off.  
  
Us. Together.  
  
It wouldn't work.  
  
It was a good thing that nobody ever knew about us. That was the year Dad cheated on Mom with mistress #3, some bridge-playing socialite, and Lauren's Dad's company was acquired in the single biggest merger in US history.  
  
More gossip would not have been healthy.  
  
But bachelorhood was good for me. I figured, what the hey? At least ten more years before my parents even attempt to convince me to settle down, and in the meantime, I had plenty of money to spend, and plenty of girls to spend it on (if I was ever so inclined).  
  
*** Can we say delusional?  
  
Sure, put on that whole, I was damn happy façade. I know better.  
  
I could see him frown at everybody around him. He was bored. He always was. Actually, I think he never stopped being bored, even when we went out.  
  
Tristan was bored. I was bored.  
  
Something was bound to happen.  
  
But not in the way you would expect.  
  
So one day, I was looking for my pair of Gucci sandals, the black ones that I bought in Italy two summers ago, when I remembered that I had lent them to Rebecca, my endearing, though evermore annoying younger sister.  
  
And what did I stumble upon in her bedroom? Piles of romance novels. Everywhere. Hidden in her closet, in her desk, under her bed. They were all Mom's too, though she probably forgot all about them once she had originally read them. My sister had slowly transferred them from the library downstairs to her room, cramming them into every available inch of space.  
  
At first I thought that my sister was reading them for the steamy sex scenes that could predictably be found in between pages of witless banter and flirtatious undertones.  
  
But no.  
  
Get this. Rebecca is the world's greatest romantic. And I don't mean that in a good way, either. As soon as she grows out of her freckles, and a guy starts looking at her funny, she'll suddenly believe herself to be head over heals in love and pledge her undying devotion to the lucky bastard under a starlit sky.  
  
I'm not kidding. She confided in me about this when I spoke to her about the romance novels. After the original, "how dare you invade my privacy speech," there was a tense moment or two when I thought she would never give me back my sandals, but eventually she did and told me all of this.  
  
She reads these novels because that's what she thinks love is all about.  
  
I would have told her otherwise, but she wouldn't let me. Instead, she went straight for her video collection and started putting random tapes into her VCR.  
  
Apparently, she was addicted to this show called Matchmaker, in addition to her addiction to the romance novels. This is a program where a friend tries to match you up with a potential life mate. Rebecca wants to go on that show and be matched with a James Van Der Beek look-alike.  
  
But suddenly I got this mental image stuck in my head.  
  
I was bored. Tristan was bored.  
  
And then there was Matchmaker.  
  
For some reason, that night, finding Tristan's potential life mate had seemed like a good idea.  
  
Even more surprisingly, I actually followed through with it.  
  
*** 


	2. Come on out contestant #1!

** I tried my best correcting this chapter. my apologies if I've missed anything. I won't rewrite the disclaimer; it's on the first chapter but covers everything in the story. Thank you so much to those who've reviewed the first chapter. It really meant a lot to me. And now, here's the second installment**  
  
Bull. That whole thing was bull.  
  
Matchmaker? Romance novels? Potential life partners?  
  
Since when have you been on crack, Lauren? I mean really. It's one thing to bitch and complain about my storytelling skills, but it's quite another to go on and on about something that never really happened.  
  
God. Next thing you'll know, she'll have you convinced I was some old lonely lady with 15 cats and a sombrero hat from the go-go days.  
  
Because frankly, all of it is a lie. As I recall, the situation evolved into a full-fledged incident on a fateful afternoon in the Chilton cafeteria. Our conversation, went something like this:  
  
Lauren: Tristan, sweetie-poo, I have something to ask you.  
  
Me: Firstly, no sweetie-poo, and I don't care if that's what people call each other in Switzerland or Greece or Namibia. Secondly, no.  
  
Lauren: Fine, whatever. Ix-nay on the poo. Got it. But this favor, you got to-  
  
Me: No.  
  
Lauren: But-  
  
Me: No.  
  
Lauren: But I-  
  
Me: No, no, and no. I can't deal with you anymore, Laur. I mean, all your favors, they all have to do with your sister. Which is fine, and sweet, actually, in some sort of freaky parallel universe where people are actually supposed to be nice to their siblings, but whatever you plan usually backfires, which leaves me usually burned, your sister devastated, and some poor football jock humiliated, and-  
  
Lauren, looking suspicious: You've got something against Rebecca.  
  
Me: Well, it's a little bit awkward considering her-  
  
Lauren: Crush on you? I told you, she's gotten over all that. Now it's all about Mark Bilstore.  
  
Me: Mark?  
  
Lauren: Some eight-grade charming, rebellious middle school God with enough hair gel and attitude to make me want to puke.  
  
Me: The problem?  
  
Lauren: The punk turned her down when she asked him to the dance. Next Friday's dance, Tristan. Next Friday at seven o'clock.  
  
Me: No can do. I already have plans.  
  
Lauren: Please, Tristan. She's devastated. If you go with her, she'll save face. Heck, by the end of the night, you'll probably have already gotten her off your hands and she'll be dancing the night away in Mark's arms. You know how fickle she can be.  
  
Me: And what do I get? You know, I hate to break it to you, but appearing at a middle-school dance with your best friend's little sister as a date doesn't exactly make you gain any popularity brownie points.  
  
It was then that she gave me the Lauren look. The I'm-hurt-and-discouraged- and-exasperated-by-your-presence-you-filthy-human-being look. I hated that look. It was the same look that my nanny used to give me when I was five and refused to watch anything playing on PBS despite her embattled pleas about educational value and wholesome programming.  
  
Lauren, accusingly: Not that you should care about that. What happened to you? You used to be above all that.  
  
Me: Maybe I'm not anymore.  
  
Lauren: You are, you prick. Pick her up at 6:30. Don't be late. Oh, and I owe you one.  
  
Me: Half our conversations end with you telling me you owe me one. Our whole relationship is based on you owing me one. What if I want to cash in one 'you owe me one'?  
  
Lauren, with one eyebrow raised: Name it and it's yours. What can I get you: booze, cigarettes, a Rolex maybe?  
  
Me: You seem to forget I've got just as much money as you do and just as many legal-aged friends who would be willing to buy me those.  
  
Lauren: The Rolex?  
  
Me: No, the booze.  
  
Lauren: Moot point.   
  
She looked around us, and suddenly her eyes became brighter, and she leaned into the table conspiratorially.  
  
Lauren: What about a date for the Spring Dance?  
  
Me: I can get my own date, thanks.  
  
Lauren: That's retarded.  
  
Me: But it's true. I could get any one of these girls to go out with me anytime.  
  
Lauren smiled. It was an evil smile. Like the smile of someone who was just about to play her trump card.  
  
Lauren: Not everyone.   
  
Me: Everyone.  
  
Lauren: What about Natalie Picard?  
  
Me: Went out with her last month.  
  
Lauren: Leslie Simpson?  
  
Me: Went out with her last week.  
  
Lauren: Manchester Sidney?  
  
Me, incredulous: Can we say man-hating lesbian?  
  
Lauren: Point taken.  
  
She started looking around once more, her eyes shifty and mischievous. I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew all along who her next victim would be. She finally spotted a solitary figure in the back of the room, back bent over the table, earphones covering her ears, and eyes voraciously skimming the contents of a book placed alongside her food tray.  
  
Lauren: Rory Gilmore?  
  
She pronounced it more like a statement than a question. It seemed to spell finality, my failure in that one thing that might have truly meant something somewhere down the line.  
  
And it was pathetic. Because she knew. Somehow, Lauren knew that of all the girls at Chilton, Rory Gilmore was the only one who would not go out with me. Even worse, this wasn't even because the girl was schizophrenic, had psychopathic parents, or was afraid of men with blond hair. Oh no. Rory Gilmore wouldn't go out with me because she "wasn't interested."   
  
Her words, not mine.  
  
And the kiss of death? Rory wasn't popular. Heck, she basically didn't have a penny to her name. She came from this hick town where people got into hissy fits when the latest asparagus shipment was late coming into the market. She wasn't somebody with whom I should ever have even contemplated socializing.   
  
A set down from someone like that should have been nothing. But it wasn't. It felt like my biggest crush had taken one look at me, laughed in my face, wrote an article about the experience and published it in the New York Times before giving a carbon copy of the darn thing to People Magazine.   
  
It felt just that bad.  
  
But Lauren didn't know when to stop.  
  
Lauren: I can get you a date with Rory, Tristan. And I can probably get you a hell whole lot more than that, too.  
  
Me, smirking: And all for the low, low price of one date with the ever enchanting, lovely Rebecca St. Martin.  
  
Lauren: So, you up for it?  
  
Me: What makes you think she'll even consider it?  
  
Lauren: Who? Rebecca or Rory?  
  
Me: You know who I'm talking about.  
  
Lauren, looking down at me speculatively: Well, you're not wholly unattractive, Tristan. And when you want to be, you can be persuasively charming. Who knows? If you let that tiny spec of humanity shine through, maybe you'll suddenly seem quite decent, at least in her eyes.  
  
Me: She has a boyfriend, Laur.  
  
Lauren: Like that's stopped you before. Like that's stopped me before! Besides, you know how these teen romances work nowadays. One minute you're the flavor of the week, the next you're-  
  
Me, striving for a dispassionate answer: She's not like that.  
  
Lauren, smirking: Maybe not. But you'll never know unless you let me convince her that you're the man of her dreams...  
  
There wasn't really anything more to add. I got up and was about to leave, strutting a few steps away from our table to demonstrate to Lauren how her words hadn't affected me in the least, when somebody ran into my side.  
  
I immediately knew it was her from the hesitating twist of her head and the sound of her book snapping shut on impact. She paused, before raising her questioning eyes at me. "Sorry," Rory said, before moving out of the way and walking out of the cafeteria.   
  
Her eyes were so vivid, I kept seeing them in my head like some sort of smoke screen permanently embedded in the back of my mind. I must have looked like a transfixed lunatic, because suddenly, I heard Lauren walk up behind me and breathe into my ear "Friday at 6:30."  
  
Having had enough, I ignored her and walked out of my own volition.  
  
*** Really, Tristan is all too easy to manipulate.  
  
I like watching his face and knowing that Mr. Hot-and-Wonderful actually thinks that he's unreadable.  
  
It's amusing.  
  
Like his obsession with Rory Gilmore. I have to admit, that was a surprise to me. I hadn't seen it coming, and with Tristan, that's actually quite rare.  
  
I mean, she's fairly attractive and all, but not overtly gorgeous or anything. She didn't have any social credibility in terms of money or popularity either.  
  
But you've got to give her her dues. She was smart. And she made it look cute and endearing.  
  
That was what was the problem. Words that described Tristan's past girlfriends didn't include endearing or cute.  
  
More like haughty, snobby, and hot. Hot, being the term Tristan would use. I prefer the term abnormally attractive.  
  
But whatever. The fact was, when she came to Chilton, and proceeded to completely ignore Tristan, it drove him crazy.  
  
It had never happened to the fool before.  
  
The effort he put into cornering her or teasing her had not passed me by unnoticed. So when I was sitting with him at lunch that day at Chilton, it was easy to torment him with her name, trying to coax him with something I was sure he had resigned himself into accepting as unreachable.  
  
And even if he tries to claim otherwise, the whole situation had every thing to do with Matchmaker.  
  
Because see, our plan was put into action way before I had ever actually sat down with Tristan for lunch that fateful afternoon.  
  
And the whole story about Mark Bilstore and the middle-school dance?  
  
All a hoax.  
  
Well, not the dance part.  
  
But Mark Bilstore?  
  
Actually nonexistent.  
  
Because I had explained to Rebecca about my intentions of finding Tristan a girlfriend after watching Matchmaker with her. She had been completely enthusiastic, and had even provided me with a couple of names of friends in her grade that might be interest in doing something like this.  
  
"Thanks, sweetie," I had managed, not wanting to offend her by saying anything along the lines of 'Tristan would prefer being seen in the company of Anna Nicole Smith, Richard Simmons and the 200 flushes dude all together than with anybody below the age of 15'.  
  
"But I think I've already got someone else in mind."  
  
She was all excited. "Who? Is it somebody I know?"  
  
"No. Just some girl. But he really likes her, though he pretends he doesn't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because she doesn't like him back. At least, not yet."  
  
I could tell I had stumped her. In her world, anybody who would treat her to a double scoop of Mint Mocha Madness ice cream every time her parents would be leaving the country on a six-month sojourn to prevent her from feeling too bad was the epitome of the perfect man.  
  
"I want to help," she said instead.  
  
So we devised this crazy-ass plan, where fortunately, Rebecca's excellent acting skills were going to be showcased to their fullest extent.  
  
And it was a good thing that our plan was so great, because we only had four weeks to enact it. At the end of that time period came the much feared, but much revered Spring Dance.  
  
Four weeks to get Mr. Wonderful and Miss Reluctant together.  
  
So it really wasn't surprising that I started getting cracking that very same afternoon. Sitting on a grassy knoll near the school entrance, I waited patiently until I saw Rory walking calmly down the pavement until she reached the bus stop. There she waited until a quaint little bus pulled up, and then she stepped onto the awaiting vehicle.  
  
Above the windshield was written its destination.  
  
I smiled, and flicked open my cell phone.  
  
"Phase 1 completed."  
  
I could feel her smile from the other end of the line, though she said nothing.  
  
"Phase two starts tonight. Remember, be believable," I ordered sternly, before laughing at the absurdity of the situation.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," she said. "How hard will it be to pretend I'm in love with the guy for one night?"  
  
"Not very. But remember, you're just a poor victim here. You need guidance. You need help. You need-"  
  
"Hey, Lauren? I get the message. I'm just a poor little girl with a downtrodden heart. Got it. And by the way, can we give our operation a code name? I'm thinking operation Condor, or operation Silver-bullet, or operation-"  
  
"Goodbye, Rebecca," I laughed before hanging up. 


	3. And you'll be playing for these great pr...

**Hi everyone. First off, I'd like to thank everybody's who has read the story so far, and doubly thank the people who reviewed. Thank you so much! Without further ado, here's the third installment**  
  
See, this is the problem.  
  
Lauren will probably have you convinced that I was this lovesick fool who spent his days pining for the elusive Rory Gilmore.  
  
Let's set the record straight, shall we?  
  
Pining is not a word in Tristan Dugrey's vocabulary. And lovesick?  
  
Hardly.  
  
And what was I doing while Lauren tried to play matchmaker?  
  
Everything I normally did. I ate and slept and did homework. I watched TV and went out for drinks and dated. The normal stuff.  
  
And how much time did I spend thinking of Rory?  
  
No time at all.  
  
Because I am a man's man. And a man's man does not pine for a girl. A man's man is content with his current situation in life.  
  
In other words, a man's man is too cool to be attached to any one particular female.  
  
Especially when this man's man had five dates lined up that week, including two on a Wednesday (can we say multi-tasking?)  
  
*** Oh please.  
  
Here's the 411 on Tristan: every time he thinks of Rory, his eyes slant sort of sideways and his whole face relaxes, as if he had just had a profound religious experience like one of those Himalayan monks encountering the joys of meditation for the first time.  
  
Translation: every time he thought of her, I could tell.  
  
And let me tell you, it wasn't pretty.  
  
Because for a man's man, he sure thought a lot about her.  
  
Instances where Tristan gets that 'I'm thinking of Rory' look on his face:  
  
Every time he opens a book (be it Hemingway or the Essentials of Fundamental Chemistry) Every time he passes by a piano. Every time he passes by a water fountain. Every time he enters Chilton. Every time he exits Chilton. Every time he passes a bus on the right-hand lane of the freeway (and by the way, you're supposed to do the passing on the left-hand, genius). Every time there's a discussion about villages or small towns or peasants and feudalism. Every time he sees McDonald happy meal toys (even I don't pretend to understand that one).  
  
*** Now now, Lauren.  
  
I think you were confusing that look with the 'help me, I'm being mentally disrobed by a disturbed adolescent' look.  
  
Because that personality you described up there did not belong to a man's man.  
  
And let's not kid ourselves; if there ever was a man's man, it was me.  
  
*** See what denial will do to you?  
  
Total delusion. He probably still doesn't see it.  
  
And by the way, Tristan, I didn't confuse the 'I love Rory and I think about her all the freaking time' face with the 'I'm being mentally disrobed against my wishes' face, because when that occurs (and let's face it, waayyy less often than you wished it did), you kind of focus your eyes on a point above everybody's foreheads.  
  
See why it would never have worked out between us? I know you way too well. Absolutely no mystery. None whatsoever.  
  
So anyway, while Tristan was prancing around like the playboy he claims (more like aspires) to be, I was busy at work.  
  
Because let me tell you, it's not really an easy thing to do to convince someone you barely know that your best friend is her dream boy. Especially if you doubt that he actually is.  
  
But that's beside the point.  
  
Now you may ask, what exactly is the point, Lauren?  
  
Well, I'll tell you what the point is: I had to make Rory Gilmore my new best friend within 48 hours. Not an easy feat, when you consider that the girl had never even addressed me before.  
  
So I took my car and rushed into Stars Hollow before the bus could make it, and sat on a park bench near the bus stop. I must have driven pretty fast too, because it took the bus a half hour to show up after I'd arrived.  
  
But once there, I found myself completely overwhelmed by the task at hand.  
  
"I have to cry," I called Rebecca over my cell phone once I had arrived on location.  
  
"Why do you have to cry?" she asked perplexed.  
  
"It'll make the whole thing seem more believable."  
  
"Well, cry then."  
  
"But I don't know how!"  
  
"You don't know how?"  
  
"No, you're the one with the family acting skills," I whispered furtively to the phone.  
  
"Just think of something really, really sad, and the tears will come."  
  
So I spent the better part of the next half hour thinking about Woody Allen in a Speedo. I must have done a pretty good job, because by the time Rory had stepped off the bus, I was shedding tears like you wouldn't believe, making those heart-wrenching gasps for breath that could be likened to the sound small fishes make when they're pulled out of the water by mischievous children.  
  
Woody Allen is a Speedo will do that to you.  
  
Anyway, one thing led to another, and finally Rory took pity on me and we went for coffee. She asked what I was doing in Stars Hollow, and I made up some pathetic story about my nanny once bringing me there for a picnic when I was 5, and that I had kept cherished memories of the place where I had gleefully shouted to the sky without having my mother proclaim that it was unladylike.  
  
Never mind that I had only started living in the United States at the age of 12.  
  
She then asked why I was crying.  
  
See, the trick to telling a story is pretending you're really reluctant in sharing details.  
  
Me: I really wouldn't want to burden you.  
  
Rory: Really, Lauren, it's okay.  
  
Me: But this isn't your problem, and if you heard, I'm afraid that you'd want to get involved and then it could become very complicated.  
  
Rory: Well, if you don't want to tell me that's fine, but just know that you can always come to me, and I'll lend you a ready ear.  
  
Can we say ew? Why couldn't Tristan fall for a jaded girl, someone who wouldn't utter clichéd phrases every second sentence and who would laugh at me and tell me to grow up?  
  
The problem was that Rory was too nice. If I wasn't careful, I would find myself liking her, and that would be completely against the plan.  
  
Plans and emotions don't mix. Neither does manipulation and a friend.  
  
Me: Well, see I have a sister named Rebecca.  
  
And out came a tearful monologue of my sister's rogue ways, and how she fell into the arms of a middle school punk named Mark Bilstore, who unfortunately came from the wrong side of the tracks and initiated poor, innocent Rebecca to hard liquor, cigarettes and Skip-Bo.  
  
Rebecca, so the story went, had fallen pretty hard for Mark Bilstore, but the black-hearted rogue (Rebecca's expressions are rubbing off on me) dared burn her in front of the whole school, refusing her invitation to next Friday's dance in front of an avidly curious assembly of students in the gymnasium during a rousing badminton tournament.  
  
Here is where the story gets ludicrous: once Tristan heard about this unspeakable villain, he leapt from his mansion, and went directly to beat up Mark Bilstore, in Mark's 40-million dollar home in West Hartford.  
  
Rory: Tristan?  
  
Me: Yes, Tristan.  
  
Rory: Tristan Dugrey?  
  
Me: The one and the same.  
  
Rory, rolling her eyes: It figures that he thinks violence is a means to an end.  
  
So, apparently, Rory wasn't incredibly impressed with fighter Tristan. But it's a good thing that I possess wicked improvisational skills, because the next five minutes were completely dedicated to describing Tristan as a virtual saint.  
  
Anyhow, so after the fighting, (but, I tried to assure her, there was very little of that since Tristan developed an extreme reluctance to fight Mark once he came face to face with him- not because he's a wuss but rather because he didn't want Mark to suffer the consequences of one of his devastating right hooks), Tristan attempted to cheer my sister up by asking her to the dance. She, of course being neither blind nor stupid, happily agreed.  
  
Rory: Tristan?  
  
Me: Yes, Tristan.  
  
Rory: Tristan Dugrey?  
  
Me: The one and the same.  
  
Rory: Why do I have trouble imagining Tristan at a middle school dance?  
  
Five more minutes were spent describing Tristan as the perfect elder brother that Rebecca and I never had.  
  
Rory: So what exactly is the problem?  
  
Me: Well as much as Tristan loves us both, as sisters, I'm afraid Rebecca just doesn't get that. She fell for Mark Bilstore, yes, but now she's fallen for Tristan even harder than she ever has for anybody before. And well, Tristan will go along with it for a while, but eventually she'll find out and. oh Rory! She's so sensitive. I'm afraid that she'll think this as a major rejection and. I'm afraid of how she'll react.  
  
More tears were expected and called for. So I conjured up images of Hugh Hefner in a bubble bath. Soon, I was weeping enough for even the most hardened criminal to take pity on me.  
  
"Oh, Rory," I finished breathily. "How I wish Rebecca was more like you! Independent, strong, studious. She's getting more and more flighty, and I don't know who to turn to. My parent's aren't coming back home for another three months, and everybody else seems to believe I'm exaggerating. But I've read a few books on teen suicide, and Rebecca has all the symptoms. I don't know what I'd do if she'd do something to harm herself."  
  
Four cups of coffee later, it was decided that Rory would join us for dinner and attempt to 'bond' with my delinquent sister.  
  
For convenience sake, I stayed with Rory at the diner where we had had our coffee, and drove back with her to my house a few hours later. Before that time, we had formed an impromptu study group, and mass-produced our homework at a speed I had never achieved before while studying with other people (aka, Tristan, Mr-if-I-can't-listen-to-Limp-Bizkit-then-nothing's- going-to-get-done-it's-my-way-or-the-highway).  
  
*** So I decided to visit Lauren that evening, because she had been acting decidedly weird all afternoon.  
  
Scratch that. Lauren always acts weird. She was just acting even more weird that her usual weirdness.  
  
And for the whole cafeteria lunch dating Rory thing? I didn't think too much of it.  
  
Because this is Lauren were talking about.  
  
The girl goes into a Starbucks to order a vanilla swirl cappuccino, and comes out with a mixed fruit smoothie.  
  
She goes to a convenience store to buy one bag of regular chips with ripples, and comes out of the store with one bag of BBQ, salt and vinegar, and ketchup and pickle flavored chips, but guess what? Right. None of them have actual ripples.  
  
She goes into the video store fully intent on renting one of the classic like Gone with the Wind or Earnest Goes to Hollywood, and comes out with some foreign Polynesian film about the sacrificing rituals of the natives.  
  
She's not exactly the most reliable person. So when she said she would be setting me up with Rory, I thought she would be intent on doing so for about five minutes, before giving up and working on her Russian vocabulary (she's fully intent on going to live there when she's older because she's dementedly convinced that she was Anastasia in a previous life. I don't know how many times I've heard her reject some stupid activity by saying 'I can't do that, Tristan. I'm practically royalty').  
  
But when I arrived at Lauren's house, though, things were remarkably odd. Take Rebecca, for example. Usually, cheerfully and brightly clothed, Rebecca seemed to be sporting a completely black attire- complete with excessive goth black makeup around her eyes.  
  
The dining room table was also set for three places, but when I asked Rebecca about the location of her errant sister, she said something ridiculous about a date with a B-rated movie star. The diner table was set for three, Rebecca declared, because she was having a couple of friends over for a séance.  
  
I left as soon as possible after that, because I had often met Rebecca's friends, and they tended to giggle a lot and pinch me in places where I didn't necessarily want to be pinched.  
  
*** Oh suck it up, Tristan.  
  
You know you like it.  
  
*** Oh, yes Lauren.  
  
There's nothing better than to be molested by a 13-year-old.  
  
*** See this sarcasm?  
  
All the hard work I put into his conquest of the lovely Rory Gilmore and I still get grief.  
  
I mean, I put in tears, devastating lies, and scarring and inappropriate mental images.  
  
And yet, still sarcasm.  
  
Whatever. I won't dwell on that just yet. Because I have a story to tell. And unlike some people, I don't just go on tangents and forget to narrate.  
  
And at that point in time, there were still some major hurdles to pass.  
  
The first, of course, being the daunting dinner with Rory and my sister. Could Rebecca pull off the act?  
  
But more threateningly, I would have to find a suitable person to play the role of Mark Bilstore, and soon.  
  
Because whether he wanted to or not, Mark Bilstore was going to be making an appearance at next Friday's dance.  
  
And luckily for me, and I knew exactly who he was going to be.  
  
*** 


	4. Are you ready to play Matchmaker???

**Hi everybody, this is the fourth installment of the story. I'm thinking there will be ten in total. The disclaimer is posted before the first chapter, in case anybody would be interested in viewing it. Here's a summary: these characters (for the most part) do not belong to me. And please- as a writer I crave for reviews; so if you have a second, please tell me what you thought of the story. Thanks and enjoy**  
  
Dinner went disastrously well. I'm talking Steven-Spielberg-the-dinosaurs- are-coming-stun-guns-a' whopping disaster of a success.  
  
It was a joke, really. Mealtime was comprised of me attempting not to gag as Rebecca praised Tristan to the skies.  
  
"Tristan is so cute!" she managed to squeal not once, not twice, but fourteen times during the main course.  
  
"Tristan is so understanding," she uttered when Rory was trying to stir the conversation away from the Blonde Devil himself to the attention Margaret Atwood deserves, and yet does not receive, as a forerunner in feminist literature.  
  
And of course, my personal favorite: "Tristan is so good at everything. He helps me with my homework all the time. He's like a God of Trigonometry."  
  
Which is, of course, pure bull. I swear to God, that guy still believes Pythagorean is the name of the dude who invented the happy birthday song. Which, mind you, was a step up from his previous assumption that 'angle' was the name given to two women who shared the same bra cup size.  
  
However, all of that is irrelevant. The point is, Rory left that evening, promising to return the next day after school for us to work together on a difficult Algebra assignment, and she also promised to try to talk to Rebecca privately to get my sister's mind off of Tristan in preparation for what we had both dubbed 'the great deflection'- the point where Tristan would inform my sister that he wasn't interested in her in that 'special' way.  
  
But the most important development of the evening was that I knew my sister's praise of Tristan would pique Rory's interest.  
  
Rory knew Tristan for the true jackass that he was, an incredibly conceited and self-involved jerk whose unwanted teasing remarks passed in school hallways were obviously the low point in her days. If Rebecca claimed to know a different side to his personality, it would probably shatter Rory's image of him and make her curious.  
  
"We did real good today." Rebecca told me that evening, looking up from one of her romance novels as I entered the library.  
  
"Yes we did."  
  
She paused for a moment before continuing. "I'm happy," she said hesitatingly, "I like Rory. She's really nice. Genuine, too."  
  
I glanced at her perturbed face. "So what's the problem?"  
  
She smiled wryly. "Who do you think is the problem?"  
  
"Tristan."  
  
"Of course. A guy like that, Lauren. let's just say I've never seen Tristan commit to anything or anyone for more than a three-day period."  
  
"Not completely true. He's pretty good at committing to brand names."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He's committed to crackers. He always asks his cook to buy Ritz crackers, and Ritz crackers only."  
  
"Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm just worried that we'll end up doing some brilliant matchmaking, you and I, and he'll ruin it by being an ass and breaking it off two days into the relationship."  
  
"With Tristan, being an ass is a definite possibility."  
  
"And like I said, Rory's really nice. I don't want to see her get hurt."  
  
"Hmm. I agree."  
  
"So what do we do?"  
  
I thought for a moment. "Well, Tristan is a definite type C personality."  
  
"Type C?"  
  
"Commitment-phobe."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And with Type Cs, there are three areas we have to cover. The first, lucky for us, has already been covered. Intrigue. Tristan needs intrigue. And Rory has plenty of that. The old innocent schoolgirl thing, for one. And the other being that she is completely unaffected by Tristan's advances."  
  
"What are the other two areas?"  
  
"Physical attraction and denial. We have to make sure Tristan is one hundred percent attracted to Rory, or the whole plan will fail. And once we make sure of that, and he spends plenty of time with Rory, being the fool that he is, he'll pretend he isn't in love with her."  
  
"Why"  
  
"It's a little thing I like to call a defense mechanism. So if we help convince him that he is in love with her, then it will be all downhill from there."  
  
"But you forget, we have to work on Rory as well."  
  
I frowned. This was beginning to take a lot of effort.  
  
"Yes, we'll have to convince her that Tristan is a great catch. You're the one with the great acting skills, though. I think I'll let you take care of that one."  
  
She laughed. "You don't need great acting skills, Laur. He is a really nice guy."  
  
"Sure, so was Al Capone."  
  
"Lauren!" she cried exasperated.  
  
"What? I'm just saying," I explained defensively. "Anyway, I think I'll wait until Friday to work on the physical attraction bit."  
  
"How are you going to do that?"  
  
I smiled evilly. "Wait and see, Rebecca. Wait and see."  
  
*** See, this is the problem. Lauren sounds like the damn evil antagonist in a cheap soap opera.  
  
"Wait and see?"  
  
Lauren, what kind of narration are you trying to go for here?  
  
And by the way, don't think I haven't noticed the vast number of times you not-so-subtly insulted me so far in this chapter. And comparing me to Al Capone?  
  
That's a low blow.  
  
You'd think she'd compare me to someone more endowed in the looks department, if you know what I mean. Cary Grant, perhaps. Maybe a young Paul Newman.  
  
But no. I get the mobster who was finally nailed for tax evasion.  
  
Geez.  
  
The possibility of Lauren toying with my love life had actually freaked me out a little. But that was okay. I could deal with that.  
  
Because as was mentioned before, and was so aptly demonstrated, since Lauren wasn't exactly the most reliable and dependable person in the world, I wasn't too worried about her potential matchmaking scheme.  
  
In addition, I had long ago realized that Rory Gilmore would be a pain in the ass to attain. And if ever I were to go out with her, I'd have to sugar her up in order to get anywhere. I mean, the big sugaring up. Not syrupy words proclaiming her ethereal beauty and intelligence.  
  
Oh no. I would have to go for broke. I'm talking the "L" word here.  
  
And lets face it. What seventeen year-old even thinks things like that?  
  
Get real.  
  
So I figured keeping my distance from Rory would be a good thing.  
  
But the day after Lauren declared her intentions of setting me up, I found out that that would be damn near impossible.  
  
Our conversation went something like this:  
  
Lauren: Excited about your big date with Rebecca next Friday?  
  
Me (rolling the eyes): Ecstatic.  
  
Lauren: No need for sarcasm. So. what are your plans for the next week ahead?  
  
Me: Why do you even care?  
  
Lauren: You wound me. Really. I'm your best friend, and suddenly you've got this secret life that you won't share? What kind of friend keeps things hidden from other friends for some secret perverse pleasure that-  
  
Me: Okay. Okay. Fine. Nothing much is going on with me. I'm overloaded with homework. That's about it. I have enough studying to do to keep me busy until graduation.  
  
Lauren: Hey, it's only a couple of months away.  
  
Me: I meant from business school.  
  
Lauren: Ouch.  
  
Me: Yeah, I know.  
  
Lauren: So what else?  
  
Me: What do you mean?  
  
Lauren (smirking): We'll I've never known you to be antisocial, even if it was just for a week.  
  
Me: Not totally antisocial.  
  
Lauren: So. who's the lucky girl this time around?  
  
Me: I've got a date with Evelyn Bartlett on Saturday.  
  
Lauren: Daughter-of-a-rich-oil-magnet Evelyn Bartlett?  
  
Me: The one and the same.  
  
Lauren: Girl-with-a-thousand-bodyguards Evelyn Bartlett?  
  
Me: I said yes the first time.  
  
Lauren: Fourth-cousin-to-the-First-Lady Evelyn Bartlett?  
  
Me: I see no reason for me to answer this time around.  
  
Lauren: Isn't she the girl who puts out on a weekly basis?  
  
I flashed her a smile.  
  
Me: I'm counting on it.  
  
Lauren (repulsed): You pig!  
  
Me (uncaring): You wound me, really you do.  
  
Lauren: Not that I thought differently of you, of course.  
  
Me: And we're back to the juvenile insults, folks.  
  
Lauren: Damn right we are. And we'll probably stay there until you grow up.  
  
Me (nonplussed): Wow. And they just keep on coming.  
  
Lauren: And they'd probably keep on coming if it weren't for the fact that you aren't going on that date.  
  
I thought I had misunderstood her.  
  
Me: What?  
  
Lauren: Just cancel the date, Tristan.  
  
Me: Again, I repeat: what?  
  
Lauren: I said cancel the date.  
  
Me: I can't do that.  
  
Lauren: Why not?  
  
Me: What? Do you want a list of reasons why I can't cancel or something?  
  
Lauren: A list would be nice.  
  
Me: Fine, first of all she's way hotter than anybody else at Chilton. Except for me, of course.  
  
Lauren: Since when do you go out with other people solely because of their physical appearance?  
  
Me: This coming from the girl who won't go out with a guy unless he measures up to an 8 on the 'Lauren Scale of Beautification'. You even have a chart set out in your room, Lauren.  
  
Lauren: Me and ugly people just don't mix, Tristan. I thought I explained that to you.  
  
Me: Whatever. Second of all, Evelyn puts out.  
  
Lauren: That reason doesn't count.  
  
Me: Why the hell not?  
  
Lauren: It's a stupid reason.  
  
Me: So now you're judging my reasons?  
  
Lauren: Only when they're stupid.  
  
Me: Fine. I had to pester my parents for months for them to pester her parents for months for them to pester their daughter for months in order for her to accept my dinner invitation.  
  
Lauren: Okay.  
  
Me: I went to all this trouble to provide ten pages worth of detailed security provisions, including a building plan of the restaurant in question as well as providing criminal police record checks on the cook, pastry chef, and lady's room attendant.  
  
Lauren: Right.  
  
Me: Also, I had to have a meeting with her entire bodyguard and security team. They made me sign release forms, Lauren.  
  
Lauren: Hmm.  
  
Me: Is that all you have to say?  
  
Lauren: No. You should still cancel.  
  
Me (looking bored and speaking suavely): Oh really? Why should I?  
  
Lauren: Because it will be extremely difficult for me to convince Rory Gilmore that you're her Prince Charming when your latest sexual exploits will be broadcast all over Chilton via the school gossip grapevine.  
  
I looked at her numbly.  
  
Me: Rory Gilmore? What does she have to do with any of this?  
  
Lauren: Really, Tristan. I didn't know you had such a short-term memory.  
  
Me: I thought you would have forgotten about your plan to set me up with her.  
  
Lauren, smiling wickedly: Not nearly.  
  
And then, just like that, she walked out of the cafeteria, head high and smirk prominently displayed on her face.  
  
I wanted to kill her. But since she was out of reach, I composed a list instead.  
  
Ten reasons why Lauren is crazy:  
  
She likes eating lobsters. Only she likes it when the head is still attached to the carapace, and their beady eyes look into hers as she eats the meat in their claws. She says she likes them that way so she knows they're fresh; I say she's crazy and should be reported to the proper authorities. She actually enjoys John Wayne movies. She doesn't think I'm gorgeous. She can list 101 guys who are "hotter" than me. This list includes names like Leonardo DiCaprio (can we say squinty eye?) and Max Medina (for God's sakes, Lauren, he's our English teacher!). She always tries speaking English with a French accent to sound more worldly and refined, but it always comes out like she's attempting to imitate Joe Pesci's dialect. She replaces the word "green" with a thousand different names for "green" in everyday dialogue. I can't even count the number of times we're in my car and she points out: "look Tristan, the traffic light just turned very verde." She thinks Freddy Prinze Jr. should have won an Oscar for his work on She's all That. She collects commemorative cutlery. Did I mention she doesn't think I'm gorgeous? She thinks I'm in love with Rory Gilmore. 


	5. Here We Have Bachlorette #1!

** Here's the fifth installment of the story. I don't really know how to describe it. Lots of going back and forth, and a new character is also introduced. As always, the disclaimer is located before the first chapter. Please review if you feel the inkling to do so, I thrive on that sort of thing. The song mentioned in the chapter is called Achey Breaky Heart, as performed by Billy Ray Cyrus. I apologize in advance for anybody for is a fan of country music and/or a resident of Louisiana.**  
  
Ten Reasons Detailing Tristan's Craziness:  
  
He publicly broadcasts the days when he is not wearing any underwear (which is, by the way, way too often for comfort). He does not particularly enjoy my sense of humor. He actually thinks he is in tune with women's needs. He claims to be able to unhook a bra faster than anybody in our grade. If his Saturday dinner date turns out to be a bust, he'll often drop by our house and play Kerplunk with Rebecca. He enjoys Cheez Whiz on broccoli. He thinks he ranks a '10' on the 'Lauren Scale of Beautification,' when in reality he is only a 6 ½. He uses pomade in his hair. Not gel. Not mousse. Pomade. Did I mention he does not particularly enjoy my sense of humor? He started this whole making a list thing, so not to be outdone, I have to make one of my own.  
  
*** Let's ignore Lauren. Shall we?  
  
Because it's that time of the month.  
  
And before I have to start running away because she's leaping at me with a lead shovel, let me explain.  
  
There is a three to four day period in every month where Lauren gets extremely sassy. I can deal with many Laurens. I can deal with moody Lauren, contemplative Lauren, bitchy Lauren, snobby Lauren, or even scheming Lauren.  
  
But when she's sassy Lauren. get away. I mean it. Preferably on one of those supersonic trains.  
  
So shall we get back to the story?  
  
Because I know if I don't, fourteen more lists are going to pop onto this page. And, let's face it? My list. was so vastly superior to hers. I mean, it made sense. It had a place in the story. It fit in.  
  
Hers? Stuck out like a white guy on Family Matters.  
  
*** Just get on with the story, Tristan.  
  
Before I actually will run after you with a lead shovel.  
  
*** Okay, fine. Have it your way.  
  
So I was basically freaked out that Thursday afternoon.  
  
I figured that if by the off chance Lauren followed through with her initial plan, Rory Gilmore was going to be making a more permanent re-entry into my life.  
  
And I wasn't ready for that.  
  
At least not after a previously scarring encounter with the female kind.  
  
So whom could I turn to for advice at this particularly dire time in my life?  
  
There was my father, of course. He would put his arm around me, swig some brandy down both our throats before regaling me with a delightful anecdote about the Vietnam War. And while delightful, such anecdotes tended not to being fully applicable to whatever situation was at hand.  
  
Then there was my mother. She is always particularly interested in the women in our conversations. If I were to explain that Lauren was trying to set me up with the girl of my dreams, my mother would probably interrupt, asking something like: "Did Lauren ever read that book about existential yoga I lent her five years ago? Did she practice the chanting with you, Tristan?"  
  
And Lauren, for obvious reasons, was out of the question.  
  
So who did that leave me with?  
  
The best guy friend. And let's face it: it's not exactly considered the epitome of coolness when you go running to your best buddy about girl trouble. It makes you seem unmanly. Which by the way, I'm totally not.  
  
*** That's right, Tristan. How could we forget?  
  
You're such the man's man.  
  
*** Will you quit interrupting, Lauren!  
  
For God's sakes, I am trying to tell a story here. Unlike some people. Not to mention any names or anything.  
  
Anyway, as I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, I had to turn to the best guy friend because it was the only other available option at that point in time.  
  
Well, that's not exactly true. I suppose I could have called up one of those restricted 1-800 sex line numbers and poured my heart out to some chick who was breathing erotically into the phone line.  
  
But when it comes to advise, stay away from those phone numbers. Trust me.  
  
To make a long story short, the best buddy in this situation happened to be Matt Jenkins.  
  
*** Oh yes. Leave it to Tristan to introduce that looser into this story.  
  
*** Hey! Don't be rude, Lauren. He is kind of crucial to the plot one way or another. He would have to be introduced sometime.  
  
Better now than later.  
  
*** Don't be trite, Tristan.  
  
*** Trite? Trite! Lauren, get over your petty insecurities and feelings. The guy happens to be a good friend of mine.  
  
It's not my fault you hate his guts.  
  
*** And why would that be, Tristan? Does somebody have to take a trip down memory lane once again?  
  
For all of you who are probably shooting looks of utter confusion at the monitor, let me explain.  
  
What, you may be asking, is the problem with Matt Jenkins?  
  
Well, let me enlighten all of you.  
  
Somewhere in the past, the guy got this brilliant idea that it would be cool to frighten all my boyfriends and potential boyfriends away.  
  
Suddenly, there were stories flying everywhere about me. Soon, I became known as the frigid female, the chick with the toe fungus, and my personal favorite, Laxative Lauren.  
  
Laxative Lauren!  
  
For Christ's sake! My parents were making a concerted effort into gnawing away a small place in upper society for Rebecca and I, and they fail miserably because some stupid jerk decided that embarrassing me was to be his main form of amusement for a six month period.  
  
It was excruciating.  
  
*** It was also very amusing.  
  
*** Shut up, Tristan! No one asked you.  
  
*** Okay, okay. Maybe I should be a little more sympathetic.  
  
But I'm sorry. I just can't.  
  
Because you got your way in the end, like you always do by the way.  
  
Anyone want to know what Lauren did for revenge?  
  
She took an add in the newspaper for men suffering from erectile difficulties, pasted Matt's face onto the body of the actor, and sent it to everyone she knew and had ever know in what had to be one of man's largest mass email send outs.  
  
Matt couldn't get out of his building for weeks without being hounded by the press asking if he had sought medical attention for his "problem."  
  
*** Served him right, Tristan.  
  
And you know what the worst part is? My parents were completely out of the loop and had no idea what a stupid, juvenile moron Matt really was.  
  
They started hoisting him on me at dinner parties and social gatherings. They thought he would be my ideal mate.  
  
However, eventually they got the idea that my steak knife would be put to a better use if they ever got us together within a three-mile radius again, and instead decided to encourage Rebecca to befriend him.  
  
I know. Ew. I mean, Rebecca is thirteen and Matt is twenty.  
  
But my parents, being my parents, believed that when Rebecca turned eighteen, Matt would suddenly realize that he had some secret hidden flame for her, and would declare his eternal love in front of a parade of society matrons.  
  
Oh my God. Tristan, take over the story. Take over the story right now!  
  
I'm starting to sound like my sister and her romance novels. That is too scary for contemplation.  
  
*** Okay, okay. Don't sweat it. I'm here to the rescue.  
  
Hmm. Tristan to the rescue. I like the sound of that.  
  
*** I wouldn't get carried away if I were you.  
  
*** Fine, fine. Now where was I again?  
  
Ah yes. Deep emotional distress and absolute prevailing need to seek advice from best buddy/ mentor.  
  
Unfortunately, when you interrupt your best buddy in the middle of a date with an elusive bond-haired, blue-eyed Scandinavian beauty by the name of Svetna, advice magically becomes hard to come by.  
  
Our conversation went something like this:  
  
Matt: Do you like this girl?  
  
Me: Yes.  
  
Matt: Do you think it would be possible to have a relationship with her that extends beyond a seven-day period?  
  
Me: Yes.  
  
Matt: Are you willing to subject yourself to possible embarrassment by your best friend sharing intimate and humiliating details to the possible love interest?  
  
Me: Wait a minute.  
  
Matt (looking beyond pissed off): Obviously there's no problem here. Let Lauren do her thing, you do your thing, and you'll get the chick in the end.  
  
And with those brief words of wisdom, I was whisked out the door and rather rudely saluted with a curt goodnight.  
  
*** So you, the heart-broken fool, got dismissed by the world's biggest jerk because he's too busy lip locking with some bimbo whose greatest asset can be traced directly to a plastic surgeon?  
  
See what this encounter proves, Tristan?  
  
I'll tell you exactly what it proves: that your so-called best-buddy isn't all that great of a buddy to start with.  
  
In fact, there's a name for people like him.  
  
One hint: it rhythms with 'a-mole'.  
  
*** No need to be petty, Lauren.  
  
Besides, I never claimed that Matt was a verbose kind of guy.  
  
*** Verbose? Have you been secretly studying for the SATs?  
  
Or has your mother bought you a word-of-the-day calendar again?  
  
Anyhow, I was eating breakfast quietly the next morning when Rebecca came to speak to me over two bowls of cornflakes and an extra-large glass of orange juice.  
  
"I think we should prepare for the unexpected. We need to bring our fictional Mark Bilstore into the picture. Someone who Rory wouldn't have met and who can play the part of the young man who stole my heart. And then we need to brief him about operation Achy-Breaky Heart."  
  
I scowled. "I thought we agreed on not giving this whole matchmaker scheme a name."  
  
"Oh come on!" she teased me before starting to sing. "Don't tell my heart."  
  
"How do you even know this song? Wasn't it popular before you were born?"  
  
"My achey-breaky heart."  
  
"My God! My ears are hurting, Rebecca. It's country music! It's like poison to the soul."  
  
"I just don't think he'd understand," she continued to belt out unconcerned.  
  
"You want to know what the worst part is? It's performed by a dude named Billy Ray Cyrus. Billy Ray! You do realize that you're singing a song that very probably is worshipped in some of those states where they constantly marry third-cousins and consider Burger King a fine dinning experience?"  
  
"Okay, okay. I'll stop now."  
  
"You do that."  
  
"But I was serious, Lauren. We need to find our Mark Bilstore, and soon."  
  
I stopped chewing on my plain toast, and looked at her. "I've got just the person to play the part, Rebecca."  
  
"Really? Who?"  
  
"I was thinking about asking Jeffrey Saunders. He has the biggest crush on me, and he thinks nobody knows about it. I'm pretty sure I can con him into being our guy for the day."  
  
Rebecca shook her head at me. "I'm sure you could, but unfortunately he moved to Louisiana two months ago."  
  
"He did?"  
  
"He's probably falling in love with his third cousin as we speak," she confirmed.  
  
"What about Ken Huntley?"  
  
"He's supposed to play the part of the dashing rogue? Lauren, he's all of four feet tall."  
  
"Maybe Adam Marston?"  
  
"His favorite hobbies include Tae Bo and color-coordinating his wardrobe. I'm thinking he might not be the best guy to play the role of the manly man."  
  
"Paul Randall?"  
  
"He's in the hospital after an unfortunate lawn-mowing incident."  
  
I was surprised. "He ran a lawnmower over himself?"  
  
"Good heavens, no! A Randall performing manual labor? No actually, one of the gardeners who was lawn-mowing at the time asked him for a salary raise, and Paul laughed so hard he choked on the ice cube that was in his lemonade."  
  
This was starting to get complicated.  
  
"Rebecca, I don't know what to do then. Those are pretty much all the male acquaintances that I know of that are around our age and would not have met Rory at some point or another."  
  
Rebecca smiled a little mischievously. "I think you're leaving one person out."  
  
"Really? Who's that?"  
  
"Why, Matt Jenkins of course."  
  
Asking for help from my most detested enemy? Asking for help from the person I hated with a virulence I usually reserved for telemarketers and Celine Dion fanatics only? Asking for help and thereby subjecting myself to utter debasement and humility all for the sake of this stupid matchmaking idea?  
  
Were the Gods really that cruel?  
  
Okay. Kill me.  
  
Just kill me now. 


	6. And right after the break, we'll begin t...

**Hey everybody (once again). So yet another installment. Three things: I thrive on feedback (hint hint), it's 5:34 in the morning and so my editing skills are probably null and void at this time, and the disclaimer is on the page for the first chapter. Thank you so much for those of you who have left me a review previously. Enjoy!**  
  
Warning! Warning! Sassy Lauren on the loose again.  
  
*** Oh shut up, Tristan.  
  
*** "Can the Gods be that cruel?" "Kill me now?"  
  
And you say I'm the dramatic one in our relationship?  
  
*** One day, maybe one day, you will be the vehicle for an important communication between mankind and extraterrestrials.  
  
Until that day comes, and you remain an inconsequential guy who has nothing important to transmit to the rest of humanity, my order to shut up still stands.  
  
Now, where was I?  
  
Oh yes. Rory.  
  
It was an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon when I invited Rory over to my house to spend whatever was left of the day motivating Rebecca to find her inner spirit and discover her true self (a true self that was completely non co-dependent from boys, of course).  
  
Coincidentally, it was also one week before Rebecca's school dance.  
  
Rory even brought a bunch of books with her that she planned on letting Rebecca borrow in order for my sister to develop her new, feminist inner- consciousness (her words, not mine). The pile contained everything from To Kill a Mockingbird to The Complete Works of Jane Austen, unabridged.  
  
"Jane Austen?" I asked, raising my eyebrows slightly. "Jane Austen as a feminist writer? You do know that in all her novels the heroines end up married to flawless male characters."  
  
"Not all of them are flawless," she answered defensively. "Besides, I would like Rebecca to focus more on the fact that Jane Austen, the writer, was a forerunner of the feminist movement. She never married herself."  
  
"Though obviously fantasized excessively about it due to the fact that marriage was the only thing she wrote about."  
  
"That's academic. Besides, she was completely free of the sphere of men's influence and she went on to do great things."  
  
I smirked. "I still say that the only reason she never married was because she was ugly and probably had some sort of speech impediment on top of that."  
  
Rory looked quite offended, and was about to reply when Rebecca came bouncing into the front hall.  
  
"Hey Rory," she greeted her cheerfully. "How is everything going?" I knew she would probably have stopped there if I hadn't thrown her a look. Immediately remembering our situation, she went on to say. "I'm doing just perfectly dreadful. I left a message yesterday for Tristan, and he never called back."  
  
Just great. Just wonderful. Now Rory will think Tristan's a loathsome human being who doesn't return calls.  
  
"But," I interjected quickly. "You know Tristan's butler is hardly reliable when it comes to giving messages."  
  
I turned to Rory to explain. "The butler, Edgar, lost his mind a long time ago," I told her. "Something about a situation involving turpentine and snapping binders. I don't know all the specifics but apparently it was quite tragic."  
  
"Yes.well," she said uncomfortably, turning around once again to face Rebecca. "I brought some books I wanted you to read. I think they'll give you some great insight into the female mind." She then dumped the pile into Rebecca's arms.  
  
"I was thinking I could call you tomorrow and we could discuss some of them together."  
  
Rebecca got this panicked look on her face. It was the same one she always had before important exams and when she spotted Uncle Julius and Aunt Cecilia dancing naked Christmas Eve four years ago.  
  
"Sure." she said hesitatingly.  
  
Other than romance novels, I've never seen her read anything in its entirety before. If it's not a book on tape, or if it wasn't made into a movie, she just figures it wasn't that great a piece of literature to begin with and not worth her while.  
  
When Rory was busy taking off her coat, my sister turned to me discreetly, asking what she should do.  
  
"Two words," I whispered back. "Coles Notes."  
  
She looked relieved. "Do you think Amazon delivers on a two hour notice?"  
  
Before we could continue though, Rory turned back to face us. "Well, I should get going. I have to go to this weekly dinner at my grandparents' house tonight."  
  
"Do you really have to go?" I asked. "It's unseasonable warm right now. I asked Greta, our housekeeper, to prepare the pool for us. It's heated and everything."  
  
"And," Rebecca continued, trying to be convincing, "it has a waterfall."  
  
I shot her a look, knowing that that wouldn't work. "And," I added importantly, "if you'll sit by the pool with us, we'll let you borrow any book from our library."  
  
"I can't," she said miserably. "I absolutely can't get out of dinner."  
  
I smirked once again. "Rebecca, will you do the honors?" I passed her my cell phone. "Be careful. Within your hands contains the sun around which Lauren St. Martin's world revolves."  
  
Rebecca just laughed. "What's your grandparents' phone number, Rory?" she asked.  
  
All it took was two minutes, an opportunity to mention our last name, as well a heartfelt good-bye, and suddenly Rory was free from her previous social engagement.  
  
"That's it?" she asked incredulous.  
  
"That's it." Rebecca confirmed.  
  
"You mention your last name, and suddenly nothing matters anymore?"  
  
"What can I say," I attempted to joke. "We're good people."  
  
"We once had a situation where my Mom and I had a flat tire, four empty coffee thermoses, and were nearly assaulted by overzealous squeegees and their pet squirrels and we still weren't excused from dinner."  
  
"Come on now," I said half-laughing. "I'm going to have to get you suited up."  
  
"Suited up?"  
  
"It's the perfect day to work on our tan."  
  
And before she could protest, I dragged her toward my bedroom. Rebecca made a motion to give me back my cell phone, but I shook my head.  
  
"Keep it," I said quietly so that Rory wouldn't hear me. "Call Tristan when the time is right."  
  
"When will I know when that is?" she asked me.  
  
"Oh trust me. You'll know."  
  
*** I got Rebecca's call shortly after I came back from my study date with the new Swedish exchange student.  
  
But really, let's face it: I hate to brag and all that, but there was very little studying actually going on.  
  
But a man's man doesn't boast about these things.  
  
Rebecca: Hey there Tristan. It's Rebecca.  
  
Me: Hey. What can I do for you?  
  
Rebecca: It's actually for Lauren.  
  
Me: Did she fall down the staircase practicing her ballroom dancing in her stilettos again? I told her to start with the flat heels and work her way up last time.  
  
Rebecca: No, no. Nothing like that. She'd like you to come to our house as soon as possible.  
  
Me (getting angry): She's always just assumes that I'm completely at her disposal. It's disgusting, actually.  
  
Rebecca: Well.  
  
Me: Tell her highness, that I can't come right now. I'm busy.  
  
Rebecca: I really think you should come, Tristan.  
  
Me: I'm sorry, but this is going to have to wait. I have a swim meet on Tuesday that I desperately have to train for, I have the student council charter that I need to review, some bio lab I have to finish before I forget the stupid answers, and my Mom is making me attend her 'Fifty and Divorced Women's Support Group' meeting tonight, despite the fact that it so happens that she isn't fifty and she isn't divorced.  
  
Rebecca: Like I said. I really think you should come over.  
  
Me (impatient): Oh yeah? Why?  
  
Rebecca: Because Rory's in a string bikini.  
  
*** You wouldn't believe how fast Tristan got to our house after that.  
  
That subject aside, getting Rory into the bikini was no easy feat either. She was about as equally enthusiastic as my mother is when she's just booked an appointment for a bikini wax.  
  
Talk about painful.  
  
But whatever. I'm Lauren St. Martin. I strive on situations like these.  
  
"I feel naked," Rory complained as soon as we hit the beach chairs by the pool.  
  
"Don't sweat it," I told Rory while slipping on a pair on sunglasses. "It's not like anybody cares. Besides, we pretty much have an all female staff working here anyway. Except for George, the gardener. But he has astigmatism."  
  
"Blind as a bat," Rebecca confirmed, seated on the chair located beside Rory.  
  
"Aren't you friends with Tristan DuGrey?" Rory asked.  
  
"Friends?" I half-joked, not liking where this conversation was going. "That's such a vague term. I prefer distant acquaintance."  
  
"Well, he obviously knows Rebecca pretty well. What if he decides to show up here unexpectedly and sees me like this?"  
  
"What are the chances of that ever happening?" Rebecca twittered nervously. "One in a hundred?"  
  
It was unfortunate that Tristan chose that precise moment to come down the path that leads to the pool haggardly. It was obvious that he had been running in order to find us.  
  
Once he spotted Rory, however, he stopped completely and just stared.  
  
About thirty seconds later, his mouth dropped open. But he didn't move. Oh no. He just kept right on staring.  
  
And Rory kept right on staring back. Though not in the same way. She was staring in mortification.  
  
And blushing. Let's not forget about the blushing either.  
  
The whole scene was just really amusing. I turned to Rebecca and lifted my eyebrow at her.  
  
As it just turned out, phase 2, the sexual attraction phase of our plan, happened to be a go.  
  
I smiled unnoticed, pushed my sunglasses back up and settled in my chair.  
  
*** Can I just say that Rory looked-  
  
*** And we interrupt Tristan's paltry attempts at narration for two, very specific reasons:  
  
We told him to shut up indefinitely and he didn't listen. He might say something that would betray this story's PG-13 rating.  
  
Eventually the situation resumed to an almost normal state when Rory scurried over to get a towel to wrap around her body over the bathing suit, and Rebecca invited Tristan to stay over for dinner.  
  
Tristan accepted, of course. Wouldn't you know that he magically managed to get out of his 'Fifty and Divorced Women's Support Group' meeting after all?  
  
I suppose the Bikini Incident (capitalized because of it's supreme importance to our Matchmaker master plan) managed to change his mind about my bossiness and what did he call it?  
  
Ah yes. My assumption that he's always at my disposal.  
  
And then he claims that I'm the one who's always changing her mind.  
  
Eventually, though, when Rory returned to reading the novel she had selected from our library and Tristan had changed into his bathing suit and started doing laps in our pool, Rebecca and I decided to meet in the kitchen to figure out the next near-calamity: the meal.  
  
Rosa, our chef, always gets Fridays off as Rebecca and I always order in pizza anyway. However, when I suggested doing the same thing this week, Rebecca insisted that that would be a grievous mistake.  
  
"You want to order pizza?" she asked incredulously. "You want to order pizza! Lauren, pizza is what you eat when you go out with the guys to a bar and drinks lots of beer while eating peanuts and cashews while playing billiards on the side. Pizza is what you eat when you're seven and go to your first slumber party where you paint each other's toenails bubblegum pink and ohh and ahh over the latest J-14 issue. Pizza is what you eat when you're a middle-aged mother with five kids and the thought of cooking another meal in your suburban home makes you want to puke."  
  
"And your point is..?"  
  
She looked really red in the face at this point. "Pizza is not the food you want to serve for a romantic encounter."  
  
So we settled for spaghetti instead.  
  
The only problem was, of course, that neither one of us had ever cooked before.  
  
"Not true," Rebecca informed me. "When I was eight, I went to a birthday party where they had us add the toppings on our banana split sundaes."  
  
But that doesn't count as cooking, does it?  
  
Anyway, we took out ready-made pasta sauce and noodles. Attempting to boil the water turned out to be a hairy situation.  
  
"How hot is hot?"  
  
"I don't know. Just turn the lever on the stove."  
  
"But what happens if I turn it too high and the water suddenly evaporates and the oven spontaneously combusts?"  
  
"I don't think that is a likely possibility."  
  
"What about salt?"  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"I once watched a cooking show where the chef added salt to the boiling water."  
  
"We can do that. How much salt?"  
  
"I don't know. Half a cup?"  
  
"Nah. Better make it a full cup. Maybe two? Besides, everybody loves salt."  
  
By the time the noodles were in the water and the sauce was simmering nicely, we both had splotches of tomato sauce on our faces, arms and hands and by a particularly complicated move (I was determining if the noodles were ready by throwing them to the ceiling and seeing if they stuck- which they didn't), I had gotten wet noodles plastered on my forehead as well.  
  
It was in this graceful state that Matt Jenkins found us both when he walked into the kitchen.  
  
"Well, well, well. If it isn't Laxative Lauren."  
  
"Well, well, well," I mocked him. "If it isn't Matt "the Jerk-ball" Jenkins."  
  
"You know," he said contemplatively while walking slowly toward us. "It really is difficult to take such a clever insult seriously when it's delivered by someone who looks like Chef Boy-Ar-Dee on crack."  
  
"Lauren, Matt be nice," Rebecca interjected quickly.  
  
"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked contemptuously.  
  
"I got the royal summons," Matt replied mockingly.  
  
"I called him here," Rebecca also added. "You weren't doing anything to explain the situation to him, and he needed his help so I decided to invite him over."  
  
"You need my help?" he continued mockingly. How Rebecca could tolerate him was beyond me.  
  
"Yes, we're trying to set Tristan up with Rory, this girl who goes to Chilton. But, we made up this story about my heart being broken by somebody at my school, and Tristan being the heroic big-brother figure in our lives, has decided to accompany me to the dance in order to save me from certain humiliation at the hands of Mark Bilstore, the so-called villain. So, to make Tristan look good, we would like him to confront Mark at the dance. We would like you to play the role of Mark Bilstore," she finished in a rush.  
  
Matt laughed. The guy had the gall to actually laugh. "No offence, Rebecca, but I'm twenty years old. I don't exactly look like an eighth grader."  
  
"We know that. We figured you could be the mysterious drop-out with the murky past."  
  
Matt finally turned to me. "Do you have anything to say about this?"  
  
Knowing that I would say something that was probably nasty, Rebecca continued, "No, she has nothing to add. I swear, if you show up next Friday during the dance, it will only take about five minutes of your time, and you'd be doing us both a really, really big favor."  
  
"Oh yeah? And what do I get in return?" It was then that he turned to me and looked me up and down almost lecherously.  
  
What was he on? Sex with him was about as likely as not paying taxes or a mosquito-less day in the springtime.  
  
Either Rebecca didn't get the innuendoes or ignored them. "We were thinking about getting you a plaque," she said seriously.  
  
"A plaque?"  
  
"Yeah, you know? Something you could hang on the walls in your apartment."  
  
For a minute I think he was going to burst out laughing, but eventually he managed to keep a straight face and wink at her.  
  
"Sure. I'll do it."  
  
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how my most hated and despised enemy got involved in our. 


	7. Right before we begin, here's a short me...

"So," I asked Rebecca on the Wednesday afternoon. "What do you think? Should I go with the body spray or the body mist?"  
  
My sister and I make a point of spending Wednesday afternoons shopping to distract ourselves from our troubles. It usually is not a pretty sight. We tend to end up purchasing way too many clothes, sampling way too many perfumes, and buying way too many lipsticks.  
  
The end result is a Thursday afternoon spent at the mall returning items while saying things like "what was I thinking?" and "why did I even buy an orange shirt if I plan on getting red highlights next month?" while attempting to keep our hands as far away as possible from our faces because they reeked of cheap eau-de-toilette.  
  
"Body mist, obviously. Betty Warren bought the spray and said it smelt so awful that she had to use the whole bottle on her dog, which triggered their dog walker to have this huge allergic reaction. He plans to sue her for negligence, you know."  
  
I thought for a moment. "But Betty Warren has the worst tastes when it comes to bath products."  
  
Rebecca nodded while flipping through the shower gel racks. "Yes, and it's not like we're in the same situation. For one thing, we don't actually own a dog."  
  
"True," I said grinning. "However, we do have Tristan. On an intelligence plane, I consider them equal."  
  
Rebecca laughed. "But as a potential solution to dumping smelly fragrances?"  
  
"The jury's still undecided on that one."  
  
*** Excuse me. Excuse me!  
  
Is this 'bash Tristan again' day?  
  
If I wanted this type of abuse, I'd sign on to watch a Hugh Grant movie marathon instead of taking gratuitous jabs at my masculinity and intellect.  
  
***  
  
Oh, cry me a river Tristan.  
  
And quite frankly, stop interrupting. especially just before an important part of the story.  
  
*** An important part of the story?  
  
You consider an afternoon spent sniffing mango and papaya hand creams a momentous occasion?  
  
What about presidential elections and nuclear disarmament? Do you consider those just background details to a day spent at the spa deoxidizing your pores?  
  
Excuse my incredibility.  
  
*** Tristan, congratulations!  
  
I see you're using the big words again.  
  
*** Don't mock my vocabulary, Lauren.  
  
At least I don't think the 'Anna Nicole Smith show' is the epitome of educational programming.  
  
*** If you look at it from a socio-economic perspective, it suddenly becomes all the more complex.  
  
*** For Christ sake's Lauren! You hear the woman pee.  
  
*** It just goes to show you, no matter what background we come from, we still all share the same basic urges.  
  
*** Whatever.  
  
*** Oohh. What a comeback. I'll try to wrack my brain to find a suitable answer for that one.  
  
Now. back to the story.  
  
So anyway, I was in the middle of this really intense discussion about foot sprays (with sparkles or just shine? Who can answer a question such as that one that has been plaguing the minds of the great philosophers during the past half-century?) when suddenly Rory pops up behind us.  
  
Rory: Hi Lauren, Rebecca.  
  
Me: Rory! It's great to see you. What exactly are you doing here?  
  
Rory: Just doing some shopping. Mom wanted us to buy a carrot grater and I heard there's this huge book sale at the emporium. Know of any good books to recommend?  
  
Rebecca: Passions of Yesterday and Intimate Desire.  
  
Me: Sweetie, that's probably not the type of book Rory's looking for.  
  
Rory (looking embarrassed but not wanting to offend my sister): No, no. That's ok. I'll look out for those titles. Would I be right in assuming that these books most probably won't be found in the science fiction section of the bookstore?  
  
Me: Not unless the main characters were sexually active androids.  
  
Rory (blushing): Right.  
  
And then suddenly, this guy shows up right behind Rory. I was totally not expecting it, and was fully prepared to use my 'hook him in the eye' move that I was taught in PE last semester during the self-defense module, when he bends down and gives Rory a peck on the lips.  
  
Not on the hand.  
  
Not on the cheek.  
  
Not on the elbow (though who does that anymore? It's so eighteen eighties).  
  
On the lips.  
  
Right in front of the whole leering crowd of obsessive perfume shoppers.  
  
And then, it was like her voice was on slow motion and got ten octaves deeper, like those voices they put in the movies right before doom is incurred.  
  
"Guys," slow-and-deep-talking Rory said. "I'd like you both to meet Dean."  
  
And just when you think it can't possibly get worse.  
  
"My boyfriend."  
  
*** See what happens when you aren't taken seriously?  
  
The worst part is, I warned her ahead of time.  
  
Did I not say: "Lauren, she has a boyfriend"?  
  
It wasn't even like I said it in a confusing way.  
  
It's not like I told her: "Hey, Rory's got a significant other, also a potential life partner if you give their relationship ten years and give him a lifetime supply of Valium to curb those resentful urges of his, whose career aspirations include the packaging of especially delicate produce and to become a featured circus act with the title of 'tallest non-NBA player to grace this side of Pawtucket.'"  
  
Being a man's man, I probably shouldn't say this, but.  
  
I told you so.  
  
***  
  
Tristan, did your mother ever teach you that if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all?  
  
*** Nope.  
  
She was too busy watching old Robert Redford movies and practicing anaerobic respiration.  
  
*** Here's me ignoring you:  
  
Once Rory and Dean left the store, Rebecca and I stayed in a state of partial shock.  
  
I was the first to snap out of it.  
  
"Dean," I said the name resentfully. "What kind of a name is Dean anyway?"  
  
"It rhymes with Bean," Rebecca provided unhelpfully.  
  
"Also with sheen and beam."  
  
"Hey!" Rebecca said. "I think we're due for a musical interlude right about now."  
  
"I think you're crazy."  
  
Rebecca laughed. "No seriously. Let's write a rap song about Dean with all the rhyme words we come up with. And when we can't come up with any more words, we'll just add in phrases like 'word' and 'phat' and 'represent.' "  
  
"What would that accomplish?"  
  
"Just to satisfy our extreme lack of amusement right now."  
  
I sighed. "Did you take a look at him? He's perfect. He seems just so gosh-darn wholesome, in a folksy, 'my parents are so middle America they have exactly 1.8 children and a golden retriever originally named Rover' kind of way."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So! How are we ever going to get her to fall for Tristan when she has Mr. Stable already in her back pocket?"  
  
"Say whatever you will, but Tristan has one distinct advantage over Dean."  
  
"And that is..?"  
  
Rebecca smiled. "His name. Tristan is a far better name than Dean."  
  
I thought for a minute. "You're right. And the name 'Tristan' doesn't even rhyme with anything, either."  
  
"Not true. It rhymes with Blitzen."  
  
"Blitzen? That name doesn't even exist."  
  
"Sure it does. You know. Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen.  
  
"Ok, ok. No need to sing. I get it. Santa's reindeer."  
  
"Ding ding ding. Give the lady a lollipop."  
  
"It's cookie. Give the lady a cookie, not lollipop."  
  
"But that's overdone."  
  
"And it still doesn't solve our problem. How are we going to get Rory to choose Tristan voluntarily- you know, without the help of tweezers and other torture instruments? You don't even seem to be that concerned with 'Dean the bean with the sheen's' sudden appearance into our lives today."  
  
Rebecca looked slightly devious for a moment before quickly smoothing out her mischievous grin. "Well," she began, "a normal person would, quite understandably, be worried. However, if such a person were to look out her kitchen window while her sister was scurrying away from flying pasta and see Rory staring in rapture at Tristan's back muscles while he was doing laps in the pool. well, such a person would come to the quite logical conclusion that if Rory truly loved her boyfriend in such an all- encompassing way, then she wouldn't have been ogling our friend."  
  
For a moment I stood in shock. "You're sure about this?"  
  
"About as sure as I am that Britney Spears will not be appearing to this year's Music Video Awards wearing a Laura Ashley dress with matching headband."  
  
I smiled before quickly attempting a more serious pose. "Well, then. I think I will go for the body spray after all."  
  
*** Is it my turn to tell the story yet?  
  
Because, heaven forbid me trying to get a word in edgewise while Lauren babbles on and on for pages on end without any purpose or end in sight. kind of like those 20/20 interviews where Barbara Walters sits there and asks those 'tough, uncomfortable' questions to sweating celebrities (no, no. It wasn't rehab. It was a support group for people who are just too gosh darn cute for words and have made over 40 million in the last financial quarter).  
  
Anyway, it was Friday. That's right. The big day. In other words, the day I had to make an important appearance to Rebecca's school dance.  
  
The day I had to win Rory over.  
  
Was I feeling the stress? Oh no. Not at all.  
  
And the fact that Rory had been purposely avoiding me since I met her bikini-clad bad girl true self?  
  
Was not an issue at all.  
  
  
  
Barefoot they ran  
  
On sweetened grass Dew flicking in spray During this day in May  
  
You may be wondering: what the hell is this? Tristan DuGrey writing poetry for Christ's sake? What the hell has gone wrong in this world?  
  
And the answer really is quite obvious: it's all Lauren's fault.  
  
You see, I approached her that afternoon right after lunch. I told her I would be a willing participant in her scheme. I told her I wanted her to use her wiles for me to get the girl. I told her to pull out all the stops.  
  
I told her all this. And you know what she told me?  
  
Lauren: Tristan, I hate to say this, but this will never work.  
  
I come to her, pour my heart out, and she tells me it's a doomed cause. That I may as well pray for peace on earth and an endless supply of free Playboy magazines.  
  
***  
  
Just stop the theatrics, Tristan.  
  
*** Don't tell me what I can or can't do. I'm not even halfway finished here.  
  
So what does she do after dropping that bombshell?  
  
She tells me that Rory is way too good for me and that my putrid grasp on men/women relationships would fail to procure even the least bit of sympathy on Rory's part.  
  
That I would have to change. That I would have to become more sensitive.  
  
I hate that word: sensitive. People are supposed to have sensitive gums, not be sensitive.  
  
And let's face it: sensitive men are not real men. They belong to a different breed, one frequently showcased on Oprah. You know, the stay-at- home Dad type who removes his tattoos of ex-girlfriends' name and renounces his motorcycles, and is most in his element serving punch and tiny fruit tarts at PTA meetings.  
  
"But the pecans whirls are so much better, John."  
  
"I don't know. My butterscotch cookies are pretty hard to beat, Ted."  
  
That's sensitive.  
  
Guys like that make me sick.  
  
Anyway, so suddenly I have to be this girly girl, a mockery of the man's man who giggles and says the L-word way too soon in a relationship.  
  
Hence, the poetry. It's supposed to showcase my sensitive side. To prove that I am more than what Lauren calls a "pigheaded numbskull."  
  
And that's not all. Oh no. Suddenly there are more rules that I need to follow.  
  
Lauren: No sex, no allusions to sex, and no jokes that are actually lewd invitations referring to the sexual act.  
  
But that's ridiculous. I mean, what's left to talk about?  
  
Lauren: You can complement her on her hair. Or you can comment on her beatific smile.  
  
Her beatific smile? Lauren, are you on crack? I don't even know what beatific means.  
  
It was exactly at that moment that she whipped out a pocketbook English dictionary. She said that Rory is extremely smart and that in order to win her over, I have to brush up on my "pathetic" vocabulary skills. Starting with the word 'beatific', apparently.  
  
And then she continued, "And you can also tell her that you love her."  
  
Suddenly the world seem to stop, and some kind of parallel universe was put into place where Lauren lips were moving with ominous, silent messages seeping out of them.  
  
During that instant all I wished for was for my Dad to appear, whisk me back home, and make me sit on the living room sofa and tell me all about the latrines in the Vietnam War and how lucky we were here in American with modern plumbing systems.  
  
"I can't tell her that," I managed to squeak. "I can't just blatantly lie!"  
  
Lauren put on her impatient look. It's her trademark 'hurry up, I've got four other social engagements in the next fifteen minutes and if I don't get some kind of cocktail within the next minute and a half I'm going to pierce somebody's rib cage with the heel of my Prada sandal.'  
  
"Tristan, look me in the eye and tell me that you don't love her."  
  
"I. I."  
  
"For Christ sake's, ok so maybe you're a commitment phobe just like me, but if you won't even admit it to yourself that you love her, then how do you plan on getting her to even admit her very obvious feelings for you when you have a dating track record the size of Oregon to scare her away?"  
  
"Okay! Okay. I get it. I'll tell her. I'll tell her tonight."  
  
Lauren looked amused. "Tell her what?"  
  
"Lauren!"  
  
"Fine, fine. And don't forget to be your charming, handsome self."  
  
I smirked. "How could I forget?"  
  
Lauren frowned but walked away. As soon as she was gone, I learnt two very important things.  
  
I was in love with Rory Gilmore and it was no use denying it to myself any longer. The correct definition for the word "beatific" is having a blissful or benign appearance. 


	8. Can we get some applause here for our co...

** Hi, there. Just to let anybody who is curious to know, there will be two chapters left after this one, and then the story will be complete, my summer project finished! Anyway, I apologize if the plot is getting more and more bizarre. I keep writing late at night when common sense sometimes escapes me (as it turns out, so do my editorial skills). Also, thank you to everyone who has been leaving me feedback. I can't tell you how much it is appreciated. I'd love to hear everybody's impression of this story, especially since this is my first (and most probably last) foray into the fan fiction world. Hope you enjoy the chapter. and also whatever few drops of freedom you can still squeeze out of summer**  
  
It was a weird day, a strange day, a bizarre day.  
  
The kind of day where you feel like spontaneously stripping down to your bra and underwear and start dancing around the grand staircase to the sound of a washed-up Geri Halliwell peppy pop song while the housekeeping staff looks on wondering if they should alert your parents of your erratic behavior and if the vitamins they found on your night table were really ecstasy pills in disguise.  
  
I was feeling quite satisfied with myself. After all, today was Friday. the day of Rebecca's school dance and the day where Rory and Tristan finally got together.  
  
And I was to be crowned Chilton's resident matchmaking genius.  
  
Okay. Maybe not crowned.  
  
But I could probably convince Tristan to buy me a badge. It was the least he could do, after all.  
  
Ugh. Scratch the badge. They scream forest ranger and county sheriff.  
  
I brooch would be nice though. A nice one with diamonds on a silver pin, that would be okay.  
  
So anyway, I was walking down the hallways with Anne-Marie Leblanc and Marisa Frances, two fellow Chiltonites whose only contribution to the school environment was improving the average looks quotient on campus, and they were busily discussing urgent business (the big question of the day: was Heath Ledger really with that witch, Heather Graham?)  
  
Anne-Marie thought they would make a cute couple, but Marisa, whose cousin's cousin knew Heath's uncle's hairdresser believed he shouldn't be rushing into a relationship with anybody yet, especially since she hasn't had the time to move out to LA yet and scope famous movie sets while jutting out her hips and keeping her eyes mysteriously covered by Versace sunglasses.  
  
And I was walking with them, you know, completely engrossed in my thoughts that Marisa would probably look better in Dolce and Gabbana than in Versace, when it hit me.  
  
Bang.  
  
Like a shoe to the head.  
  
My plan was not flawless. There was a problem. There was a situation that I had not foreseen.  
  
Gone were thoughts about brooches and ceremonial flags. Gone was the title of perfect matchmaker.  
  
I was a failed Cupid. They had places for people like me, and those places where filled with discounted Richard Simmons' exercise videos (feel the burn!) and K-Mart place settings.  
  
But I was a St. Martin, and a St. Martin does not squirm or cry at the first sign of adversity. We rise up to the occasion- usually by the ensuing bankruptcies and litigations that miraculously befall our enemies and competitors.  
  
I quickly whipped out my cell phone from my purse with one of those moves that could have been easily employed by B-rated Western actors as they reach for the pistols in their holsters.  
  
This caused Marisa to scream with glee before fainting dead away (it turns out she thought I was actually calling Heath Ledger and telling him not to commit to a serious relationship before he met a certain five-foot-nine, dark haired acquaintance of mine from school).  
  
As if.  
  
Anyway, so I dial this number and wait impatiently for the line to be picked up.  
  
"Hello, Matt Jenkins speaking."  
  
"Matt? Come quick. I need your help."  
  
"You need my. who is this? Lauren?"  
  
"No, it's Paula Abdul with a face lift. Of course, it's me."  
  
He sounded impatient. "I just excused myself from a very important meeting with two of our top executives to take this call."  
  
If he was looking for sympathy, he wasn't going to be getting it from me. "If it was such an important meeting, why did you answer the phone?"  
  
"I'm expecting a call from the President of our subsidiary in Sidney."  
  
"Oh. How convenient," I uttered. "Should I be impressed?"  
  
"Impressed?" he sounded angry. "This isn't a matter of you being impressed or not. The last thing I need is for those people inside that board room right now to be discussing how I'm not measuring up as a potential future leader."  
  
"Thanks for the lesson on Corporate America there, Matt."  
  
"If you don't tell me, in two seconds or less, why you need my help right now, then I'm going to be hanging up and forgetting that you ever called."  
  
"I need you to help me break into a locker at school."  
  
Pause.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Rory has a phone number in her locker that I need, and you know when you tried to pick up those Canadian models at the Bewelski shindig last month? They really weren't all that impressed with you, so you used that whole 'I'm a misunderstood bad boy' vibe you had going on that night, and told them that you once broke into a security deposit box. I figured that if you had managed to break into that, you wouldn't have any trouble with a simple school locker."  
  
"Wait a minute here. Just wait a minute! You're basing this whole conversation on a pick-up line I used last month?"  
  
"Just. please. Please come down here and help me."  
  
I could almost picture him smiling into the phone, congratulating himself on having made me beg. "That all depends," he murmured seductively into the phone. "Which pair of undies are you wearing right now?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Which ones? The tiger-print thong or the pink one with Winnie the Pooh on them?"  
  
"How," I asked him in blind anger, "do you even know what type of undergarments I own?"  
  
"Wouldn't you like to know. Give me a half hour and meet me in front of the fountain."  
  
Click.  
  
I looked up and saw that Marisa was just coming to and Anne-Marie was helping her stand up.  
  
"Who were you talking to?" Marisa asked, her eyes still slightly rolled back.  
  
"Men!" I muttered angrily. "All useless, pathetic human beings."  
  
Marisa and Anne-Marie looked vaguely shocked at my outburst, but I wasn't even finished yet.  
  
"And your Heath Ledger? Well, he probably isn't any different than any of them. However, his one redeemable quality, I'll bet, is that he doesn't snoop into girls' dressers to check out what type of panties they own out of some sick fetish whenever their younger sisters invite him over to dinner, which is a definite step up from the men I know."  
  
With that, I walked away in a huff, already planning my next move.  
  
Looking back, I probably shouldn't have said what I said about men. At least not aloud.  
  
Because by lunchtime, there was a huge rumor circulating about Tristan and a possible cross-dressing incident.  
  
***  
  
So that was how that rumor came about.  
  
I was wondering why people kept coming up to me asking if Donna Summer was my inspirational leader and would I be interested in trying their shoes?  
  
Good thing I'm such a manly man that that rumor was dispelled by the end of the school day (punching Rodney Renburg in the jaw when he asked me what was my favorite shade of lipstick probably had something to do with it as well).  
  
If not, the task of pursuing Rory would have suddenly become much, much more difficult.  
  
I'm talking, a lone, blind, and one-legged man trying to scale Kilimanjaro here.  
  
But thankfully, that wasn't the situation.  
  
Anyway, so I was in algebra class, trying to discern what the hell Mrs. Morrison was talking about (matrices. who needs to multiply them anyway?) when Lauren suddenly sits down in the seat behind me.  
  
"You're not in this class," I tell her quietly, while still facing the front of the room for Mrs. Morrison's benefit.  
  
"No shit, Einstein."  
  
I winced. "Ouch." I paused as Mrs. Morrison addressed a question to the class, and watched through the corner of my eye as Lauren ducked behind my head. Once the teacher turned back to the board to finish the problem, I continued: "no need for the strong language. What's got your panties in a knot, anyway?"  
  
That seemed to only make her angrier, but she didn't respond for a while. Finally, she whispered back.  
  
"I need to know Rory's locker number."  
  
"Why are you asking me?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Now's not the time to be coy, Tristan."  
  
"It's not like I'm this looser with absolutely no life who hangs out by her locker every waking moment of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of her."  
  
Lauren just raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Okay. Fine, fine. It's number 4132."  
  
Lauren took out her stylized note pad and wrote the number down. "Thank you, buddy."  
  
"Why do you need the number for, anyway?"  
  
She smiled, slyly. "I figured you needed some alone time with Rory tonight. But how would that be possible with everybody's favorite guy, Dean, hanging by her side constantly? So now, there's this change of plans: I'll be giving Dean a phone call tonight and you, my friend, will be the lucky bastard who gets to pick Rory up."  
  
"And the locker number?"  
  
"Who doesn't keep an address book in their locker with their boyfriend's phone number inside?"  
  
I looked at her incredulous. "You're breaking into Rory's locker to get a phone number? There's this great little device, you see, and it's called a phonebook."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Have you ever tried getting somebody's number when you only know their first name? Besides, your hands get all dirty from fingering that cheap paper. Seriously, can I get anymore tacky if I appear at the dance tonight with newspaper-print stained fingers?"  
  
"I won't even answer that."  
  
At that point, Mrs. Morrison turned back to the class and started assigning problems from the textbook.  
  
"I better leave before I get caught. or worse, get assigned homework myself. Just remember, pick Rory up at 6:30. Not 6:15, or 6:45. Six thirty. And whatever you do, don't wear that suit you wore to my cousin Vinny's wedding. you know, the one that looks like it's straight off the rack at Price Club. Be nice, lots of compliments all around, and don't forget not to go all caveman on me by saying something like 'I'm a man, I'm macho, I'm hot and you should be honored to be my chosen one' or I'll be forced to tell her about Karaoke night at the club and your interpretation of Whitney Houston's-"  
  
I got impatient. "Okay, okay. I get the point. I can't screw this up, got it. I hate to remind you, but I'm the one with the most dating experience between the two of us."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Typical. You deny, deny, deny even when there's a problem."  
  
"Just go already!"  
  
"Fine."  
  
And she was just about to leave, when I asked her a parting question.  
  
"Who are you going to get to come open the locker?"  
  
She didn't answer. Instead she just flashed me this mysterious smile like she was some femme fetal with a shady past, or an extra on Charlie's Angels.  
  
But I wasn't fooled. I knew the true Lauren. Ten bucks said she bought a how-to manual from Barnes and Nobles and was getting Rebecca to do the work, poor girl.  
  
***  
  
And he's the one complaining about never getting any respect.  
  
As if I would do anything that could possibly get Rebecca into trouble. One of us needs to succeed in school, after all, in order to get into one of those schmoozy girl colleges where they teach you all about the joys of volunteering for useless charitable committees with pathetic causes.  
  
Instead, they should find real causes. Here are some of my top picks: the 'get Tom Green a decent movie script for the love of God' foundation and the 'organization for the removal of Enrique Iglesias' mole' (hello, it's not like the medical technology isn't there, so that can't be used as an excuse).  
  
Anyway, so back home, the stage was set for the perfect St. Martin deceit.  
  
"Rebecca," I told her. "I'll be calling Dean from my cell phone. That way, if he has caller identification, he won't be able to tell where I am. But I need you to play really loud music on the stereo system so that he thinks we're at the school dance already."  
  
She nodded. "I'll take care of the music, you just take care of the conversation."  
  
Taking a deep breath, I dialed Dean's number, and just as I was about to speak, Rebecca turned on the stereo.  
  
Horror of all horrors. The song she chose was the Macarena.  
  
Me: Dean, is that you?  
  
Dean: Yes. Who is this?  
  
By this time, I was frantically gesturing to Rebecca to change the music. Finally she caught on and started looking for another CD.  
  
Me: This is Lauren. You know, the girl who goes to Chilton.  
  
Dean: Rory's friend. Yeah. Aren't I supposed to meet you at a dance later tonight?  
  
Me: The dance is right now.  
  
Suddenly the Latin music stopped, and instead, unmercifully, the Village People's YMCA came on instead.  
  
Dean: What? Where are you? I can barely hear you with the blaring music and all.  
  
Me: I'm at the dance. So is Rory.  
  
Dean: What?  
  
Me: The dance started at five.  
  
Dean: Five? Rory told me to pick her up at six thirty.  
  
It was getting worse and worse. Suddenly the music veered from Micheal Jackson's Billy Jean to Ace of Base.  
  
Me (yelling into the phone to be heard over the music): No. Rory asked me to call you about that. She thought it was seven. It actually started at five. It being a middle school dance, and all. So she's already here with me. She's waiting for you, actually.  
  
Dean: She's at the school already.  
  
Me: That's right.  
  
Dean: Okay. Tell her I'll be there as soon as possible.  
  
Me: Sure. I'll tell her that.  
  
Dean: Oh, and by the way. I hope everything goes well for your sister tonight and that Mark Bilstore gets what he deserves.  
  
I pictured Matt as Mark Bilstore, and his inappropriate comments.  
  
Me: Oh, I'm sure he will.  
  
One call down, another one to go. I waited twenty minutes before dialing again.  
  
Me: Rory? It's me, Lauren.  
  
Rory: Hello! How is everything?  
  
Me: Fine, but why aren't you here yet?  
  
Rory: Where?  
  
Me: At the dance.  
  
Rory: It doesn't start until seven.  
  
Me: No, no. It started at five. Look, you must have been confused about the timing and all. But that's cool.  
  
Rory: I'll be there as fast as I can. I'll call Dean and we'll go together.  
  
I pretended the line was very bad and couldn't hear her.  
  
Me: What? Oh listen, for your ride, I asked Tristan to go pick you up. He was in the neighborhood anyway.  
  
I tried to think of an activity to make Tristan seem saintly.  
  
Me: . volunteering at the orphanage. He told me he'd go get you.  
  
Rory: What? There's no. wait a minute! I don't need a ride, I'll call Dean and we'll go together.  
  
Me: I'm sorry, the line is really bad. I've got to go. See you soon!  
  
And I cheerfully hung up the phone and danced around in victory as Olivia Newton John belted out "Let's Get Physical."  
  
"What are you so happy about?"  
  
I smiled. "She'll try calling Dean, but he won't answer because he's already gone. So Tristan will be her ride in the end."  
  
I twirled around and collapsed onto the bed. "See, my plan. Foolproof. And I? Am still the reigning matchmaking genius."  
  
"I wouldn't get too cocky yet," Rebecca warned, but she joined me on the bed and bopped her head to the beat of the song, seemingly unconcerned about the potential for failure.  
  
*** 


End file.
